


Chronic Fractures

by Lidsworth



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Roller Coaster, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Psychological Trauma, fingon is traumatized and he doesn't even know it, i'm my own beta so forgive my mistakes, maedhros is tired of trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8582251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidsworth/pseuds/Lidsworth
Summary: After Angband, Fingon and Maedhros attempt to pick up from where they left off.  But miscommunication and unresolved tension puts a wedge in their relationship that neither can see past. Yet Maedhros tries preserve what little they have left, while Fingon sees no point in continuing.  Or Fingon struggles to find the difference between love and obligation, and Maedhros prepares to heal without Fingon by his side.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea has been on the back of my mind for months now. I don’t ever truly believe that things after Maedhros’s rescue will go back to normal for him, or for Fingon either, due to a series of obstacles in their way. If you follow my tumblr you know my views. If not, well stick around! Please comment! I live for your feedback and critique (which I am always open to). Gives me confidence and makes me a better writer.

**Title:** Chronic Fractures **  
Summary: ** After Angband, Fingon and Maedhros attempt to pick up from where they left off.  But miscommunications and unresolved feelings put a wedge in their relationship that neither can see past. Yet Maedhros tries preserve what little they have left, but Fingon sees no point it.  

Or

Fingon struggles to find the difference between love and obligation, and Maedhros prepares to heal without Fingon by his side.

AN: So this idea has been on the back of my mind for months now. I don’t ever truly believe that things after Maedhros’s rescue will go back to normal for him, or for Fingon either, due to a series of obstacles in their way. If you follow my tumblr you know my views. If not, well stick around! Please comment! I live for your feedback and critique (which I am _always_ open to). Gives me confidence and makes me a better writer.

Fingon nearly yelps as Caranthir bolts at him through the doorway, hand outstretched like a vulture’s claw and already reaching for his neck. And had Fingon not believed wholeheartedly that he deserved what was coming next, he would have stepped back and let Caranthir strangle the air.

But like a proud martyr accepting the gallows, Fingon lifts his head just slightly in order to allow Caranthir's hands ease of access.

His haughtiness only works to enrage Morifinwe even more.  


"Do you think this is funny?!" He snarls like the wolves he's slaughtered as his sharp nails pierce deeply into the soft tendons of Fingon’s neck, drawing tiny ribbons of blood that pool into the dip above his collar bones. He falls backwards to the ground, with the Feanorian’s crushing weight on top of him.

Despite the sting in his neck and the ache growing in his back, Fingon responds with a defiant silence, though he would love to use the hand currently constricting his neck as an alibi. But even without Caranthir's intervention, he would have remained silent on the matter.

"Where the hell were you? He needed you!"

And this is where Fingon dies, he thinks, for his answer, or lack of one, and his apathetic approach towards the entire situation (which he is fully at fault of. He broke a promise) throws Caranthir into a dark, silent rage.

He looks down at the elf and sees an orc instead.

There is a small shuffle behind Caranthir, and standing in the doorway huddled, is a small child. He recognizes it as Tyelpe, the son of Curufin that nobody knew about.

The child had attached himself to every adult that he could manage and usually followed his uncles (and aunt, for there was Aredhel) around with a toothy grin on his face. But there was no smile today, only a quivering lip.

It appeared that Caranthir is his uncle of choice today. Bad decision. Yet it is for the best, supposes Fingon. He needs to know that he is born into a family of kinslayers.

Fingon only loathes that he will die with Tyelpe's terrified face as the last thing he will see, for he will leave the world without having done any real good.

The claw at his throat does not last though. And in the midst of drifting in and out of consciousness he finds himself in a ball on the floor, clutching at his neck a gasping for air like a small fish out of water.

Maedhros has appeared, animatedly engaging in a conversation with his brother in old Quenya (Maedhors has been gone for 30 years. He hasn't yet learned the new lingo, but Fingon supposes he is grateful for that. The old tongue takes him back home, when the thing between he and Maedhros could be called love. Now it's just obligation).

With a scoff Caranthir turns from his eldest brother midsentence, stalking out into the hallway where the others have appeared.

"I would have done worse." He hears Celegorm speak, turning to follow his younger brother who stalks the hallway, ready to explode like an angry volcano. He lets the soft pitter patter of Tyelpe's feel bring a smile to his face, though it doesn't last.

Maedhors is above him, peering down with an impassive expression. Fingon feels scrutinized underneath that familiar gaze, and fights the urge to scowl in return.

Instead he says: "I heard that you had another nightmare. I was out hunting. I'm sorry I wasn't here." He speaks his lie void of all emotion, like an actor who is just reading his lines for the first time.

"You hunted the day before that, Finno. Will you hunt everyday now?"

He doesn't answer Maedhros for a long time. Only looks at him with a careless glance. It is much easier to say that he wants to hunt than to say he wants to stay away from Himring. From Maedhros.

So slowly, he nods.

Maedhros’s brows furrow and his eyes glisten over.

"It is winter. Not even Celegorm can hunt in these woods." His voice is incredibly leveled for a man who looks like he will break any moment. And perhaps he does.

"You are not sorry Fingon." And he turns in a whirl of red hair and darker robes, leaving the eldest son of Fingolfin to stare up at the ceiling. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

It is said that the truth will set you free, but Fingon doesn’t feel free.

He feels like a steak has just been rammed into his heart, grounding him into the floor, and by extension into this moment.

He replays their one sided conversation over and over again in his head, wondering if he should have approached the situation differently.

But in all honesty, what was the point of lying? Because for what little love he has left of Maedhros, he cannot bring himself to care.

He blames Maedhros too much for that.

He has already done more for him than the eldest son of Feanor has done for him.

He saved him from Thangorodrim. Maedhros dammed him to decades on the ice.

He thinks that his treatment is fair.

Later on his sister and father come into the corridor. Fingolfin looks disappointed, Aredhel looks like she could kill.

"You should have let him die if all you will do is watch him suffer" She says only that, and turns to leave.

Fingolfin watches his daughter over his shoulder as she retreats, and with a sigh returns to his son.

"You forget that Matimo and I were friends before you were even conceived, Fingon. I would appreciate it if you left him to his own devices instead of lingering around the place offering a false sense of hope. I won't pretend that i am not angry at your antics nor entirely sure of what the motive for your rescue was—for certainly you see no reason to aid Matimo in his recovery…”

“I am not like you father. I do not bow to men who forsake me and my people, nor do I wrap my motives around them,” he spoke of Feanor, and this, Fingolfin could tell. He thinks that, had he been standing, his father would have certainly struck him.

“What the hell happened to you Fingon?”

“Should I start with the kinslayings or the ice? Either way it’s all his fault.”

“You’ve gone insane, Fingon. Go back to the fortress before you wreak more havoc than necessary.” And Fingolfin too leaves Fingon on the floor, but not fast enough to escape the shrill laugh that erupts from his son’s mouth.

Though he doesn’t stay long enough to hear the sobs that follow. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> debating real hard on whether or not I want to make this a multi-chapter fic. Honestly, it depends on the feedback, so please tell me how you felt about this fic, or leave a kudos. 
> 
> Also, check out my [tumblr!](http://inkstranger.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
